


A Capital Holiday

by keeponshouting



Series: Not As Planned [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bisexual Character, Death, F/F, Gen, Self-Indulgent, So very very self-indulgent, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeponshouting/pseuds/keeponshouting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've become the nemesis of ever bigot who's stepped a single digital foot onto their cyber territory but they've never met in person.  So when Combeferre suggests a joint holiday, spending the week between fall finals and going home for Christmas in Washington D.C., it seems a no-brainer to all three.  Enjolras is the first one there, though, and so the first to get a taste of the fact that things most likely aren't going to go quite as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a joke. Once upon a time I said that I wanted to write a modern or reincarnation au in which I mashed together Les Amis and the friends with whom I most associate them. That being the case, the fic in question would be tremendously self-indulgent and probably really silly and - you know what? - that's all right. It's technically a Christmas gift anyway so the only way a negative opinion would matter is if it came from one of the people I wrote it for.
> 
> So yeah, this was supposed to be short and silly and sweet and introduce a universe I might visit from time to time but then it sort of snowballed so here you go.

They were drawn to one another long before they ever met in person.  In all the same social forums, joining all the same discussion with similar views and the facts and reasoning always ready to back one another's arguments where necessary, it was only a matter of time before the three became what they had always been:  the great triumvirate.  When someone, some distant stranger, finally made the mistake of calling them on it, however, that was it.  The flame was lit.  There was no going back.

That first had been an excellent take down, though a bit crude in comparison to later collaborations.  It hadn't been planned, hadn't even been until a few responses in that Combeferre had finally reached out and made her suggestion - a pooling of resources.  If they did this together, it would go more quickly.  Back one another, share knowledge and opinions, keep their side succinct and eloquent, and break the bigots' arguments from the ground up.  Enjolras had taken a moment to consider whether or not she should accept a veritable stranger's help but ultimately agree.  Courfeyrac's response, meanwhile, had been quick and enthusiastic and displayed far less capitalization and far more exclamation points than any of her well written counter points ever did.  (Ultimately, a friend of their would point out that each of their typing styles acted as fairly accurate metaphors for them as people and none of them would really be able to properly disagree.)

It takes a while after that before they start considering what they could accomplish if they actually met up in person.  Once it's mentioned, though, by Courfeyrac in a quick and maybe a little bit nervous "wouldn't that be nice" sort of way, the idea just won't go away.  None of them live very close to one another.  There's a lot of distance to cover.  Flights aren't cheap and neither are busses and they're all in school and Enjolras even has a border to cross and yet…

“Christmas.”  They’re on video conference while they study, though no one has actually spoken in at least half an hour, and Combeferre’s voice out of nowhere makes the other two jump.

Courfeyrac gathers herself, sets her pencil aside, and leans in toward the camera until her face takes up the entire thing, expression warily confused.  “Christmas?”

Combeferre nods and stares back at her but doesn’t say anything else until Enjolras gives up on fixing her notes and looks up as well to ask, “Is still a month away.  What about it?”

There’s a pause as Combeferre shifts in her chair.  “I was just thinking…  When do you get done with exams?  Most of mine are just papers.  My only sit-down is December 11th.”

“Um!”  Courfeyrac leans back to think.  “Yeah, I’ve got two the 11th and one on the 12th and the rest are just things I turn in whenever.”

Enjolras tilts her head, brow furrowed.  “All of mine are papers this semester.  Why?”

“Because I was thinking,” Combeferre finally announces, sitting up straight and looking terribly pleased, “that if we were all done early enough, maybe we could all scrape the funds and plan to, ah, do something.”  She beams at the two faces staring back at her from the computer screen.

There is a long silence before Courfeyrac lunges forward again, wide eyed and visibly excited and clutching at her monitor so as not to knock anything over even as Enjolras very nearly loses her balance in surprise.  “You mean actually together?  Like all three of us?  Doing something?  Together?”

Combeferre just laughs and nods.

“I’d have to save a bit.”  Enjolras settles herself neatly back into her seat and rests her elbows on the table, fingers steepled.  “It’s also going to be terrible trying to find flights that close to a major holiday.”

“But we could do it!”  Courfeyrac is no longer actually seeing them as she sits back and starts scanning something else she’s pulled up over the call window.  “I’ve definitely got the money for a flight but what do we do?  Where do we go?  What sounds most interesting to you?  It’s really pretty in the cities in winter but it’s really pretty in the country, too.  How long are we thinking of staying?  We should go somewhere with things to do.  Can we actually pool enough to afford a hotel or something?  It’d be nice to go somewhere that’s actually all of us getting away.  So no, ’Ferre, we aren’t meeting up in New York if we don’t have to because then that wouldn’t be much of a vacation for you so hush.”

Combeferre blinks and shakes her head as she looks to Enjolras.  “How does she know?”

Enjolras merely shrugs and sets to tapping her pen against one of her books.

“Oh my frick!”  Courfeyrac actually squeals, forcing the other two to lean away from their speakers before she gets her hand over her mouth to muffle the end of the noise.  It’s followed almost instantly by, “I’ve got the best idea.”  She closes her other window and leans into the camera again.  “We should go to DC!  We could see the National Christmas Tree and the botanical gardens are supposed to be all decorated and all of the historical buildings and museums and there’s so much stuff you can get to by public transportation and it’d be kind of fitting to meet up in Washington when we sort of found each other through civil rights and politics and stuff, wouldn’t it?”

She’s waiting for confirmation and the other two look at one another for a moment before Enjolras cracks a small smile and Combeferre chuckles.  “Actually, yes, that would be kind of fitting.”

Courfeyrac squeals once again and goes back to looking up things that they could do.

 

Enjolras is the first to arrive, having only found one reasonably priced flight fairly early in the morning.  She comes into Reagan Airport before she really considers the fact that she’s not sure what she’s going to do for the next few hours.  Combeferre’s train comes into Union Station around noon and Courfeyrac’s flight should land around four but it’s only half past eight and they can’t even check into their hotel until after one.  How is she supposed to waste that sort of time in a strange city with her luggage in tow?

She’s in the process of texting Combeferre about this very dilemma when she runs into someone who, for all appearances, seems to be in the exact same position.  They’re both texting rather than watching where they’re going, even though they’re both also dragging around rather unwieldy bits of luggage that seem to have lives of their own.  In fact, they go so far as to even speak at the same time, though Enjolras finds that the other party’s words can’t be understood from behind a blue and green scarf that must be at least ten feet in length when not wrapped three times around someone’s head and face.

The person grunts in frustration and shoves the knitted monster down a bit when trying to speak again.  “Did you get any kind of apology out of that or was I just totally unintelligible?”  Their expression is itself so tremendously apologetic that Enjolras offers the most reassuring smile that she can manage in return.

“Sorry.  Didn’t catch a word but the sentiment was easy enough to guess, if that helps at all.”

They share a smaller, more awkward smile after that and then it’s over.  Nothing.  One quick wave is all they exchange before they’ve gone their separate ways and melded into the crowd following signs from the baggage claim to the Metro.

Enjolras texts Combeferre about that as well.

She doesn’t see the stranger again until they’re both milling around with the rest of the commuters on the platform, far too many people in far too little space, patiently (or rather impatiently) waiting for the next train.  The decision has been made that she’ll head for Union Station, where she can just wander around some shops while she waits for Combeferre to get into town.  Then they can grab some lunch, waste a little time, and go get checked in as soon as the front desk opens for new guests at the hotel.  It just so happens that she and the scarf, plus human inhabitant, are apparently heading the same way.

They both shove on at the same time and the stranger flashes her a quick smile before moving back into a corner.  Not entirely sure where she’s going, she takes the relatively easy path of doing the same.  When she sees their mouth open upon her claiming the small space beside them, she finds herself instinctively bracing for some sort of bad line.  It’s the perfect spot for a “fancy seeing you here” or “are you following me” or maybe a terrible pick-up.

What she gets is, “Stick your bag against the wall behind you.  Then you can sit on it and nobody else can mess with it.”

She watches in slight surprise as they do just that, perching on the edge of their own luggage and spreading their hands in front of them.

“See?”

It elicits another smile as she follows suit.  “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, definitely.  You just—”  They gesture a bit more wildly than necessary for a moment as the train lurches into action.  “You’ll want to keep an eye on a window so you can watch for your stop in case you can’t hear the driver calling or, I don’t know, sometimes they just don’t bother.  So you might have to stand up to get a good look over people’s heads.”

She nods at that and, when no more words are forthcoming, she pulls out her phone again to let Combeferre know what’s going on.  It’s a little bit weird, not a habit she’d ever really noticed herself forming, but now she thinks about it, waiting for a text back, she has seemed to do that a bit more since this trip had become a thing that was actually happening.  Not just Combeferre, though, she’d been constantly texting with Courfeyrac, too.  Previously phones had mostly been reserved for sharing quick thoughts they wanted to mention before they forgot or warnings that something had been posted while one of them was away that was really going to get under their skin.  Enjolras, in particular, seemed to get a lot of messages reminding her not to officially react to anything without discussing it with the others first.

This time the response she gets is Y _ou mean_ _the same person from the airport?_ followed by _Do they seem nice nice or just sort of a decent human being nice?_ and _maybe ask their name if they’re the former?_ and just before she tries to send something back _But don’t talk politics with them or anyone else until all three of us are there because I do not want my first task in Washington to be figuring out how to get the Canadian out of the US prison._

**Enjolras:** _I am not going to get arrested._

**Combeferre:** _Rather not take any chances._

**Combeferre:** S _o do they seem genuinely nice or what?_

She glances over to find her companion in a similar position to herself, glancing up toward the window between typing out texts and checking the buzz of an incoming response.  Occasionally they hold their phone up a bit, trying to get better signal.  They’ve ducked back down into the giant scarf by this point and their eyebrows are furrowed whenever they look down at their screen.

**Enjolras:** _Nice enough.  We’ve only talked twice and neither incident amounted to an actual conversation._

**Combeferre:**   _I suppose the real question in this situation is whether or not they seem in any way threatening._

Enjolras glances over again, watching the furious typing, backspacing, typing and the way they wrinkle their nose.  She can almost imagine the tip of a tongue poking out even though she can’t see that portion of their face.  On top of that, she notices for the first time that she’s definitely got a few inches of advantage in height.

**Enjolras** : _Not threatening in the least._

**Combeferre** : _Then would you be comfortable chatting with them?_

**Enjolras** : _I hope you don’t mean chatting like small talk.  You know how I feel about small talk._

**Combeferre** : _Do you consider getting a name and possibly preferred pronouns small talk?_

She wrinkles her own nose and sighs.

**Enjolras** : _Small but also necessary._

She pauses, glances sideways.

**Enjolras** : _I can’t just suddenly ask someone their name and gender, can I?  That might seem odd._

**Combeferre** : _Or like you’re hitting on them.  Are they local?_

**Enjolras** : _Or that.  How would I know?_

**Combeferre** : _You could ask!  Just say that you’re not sure where you’re going.  If they can’t help, you’ve started a conversation.  If they can, you’ve still started a conversation._

A fair point.  Besides, saying she was a little bit lost wouldn’t necessarily be lying.  She’d barely had time to glance at the rail map before the train had become too crowded for her to really see it.  It’s in question as to whether or not she’s even on the right train, though she knows she’s headed in the right direction.  So she takes a deep breath, waits for a pause in the texting going on beside her and puts on her best, most pleasant, and most definitely not at all nervous smile.

“Excuse me.”

The look of shock she receives in response is actually almost painful and she has to pause for a second to process the meaning.  It’s the sort of expression that speaks of certain expectations, she’s realizes, namely the expectation of being ignored.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac are better at interpreting people than Enjolras has ever been but she’d have to be entirely blind not to recognize this sort of guardedly hopeful confusion.

“Sorry,” she starts again, forcing her smile back into place as she leans in a bit for better communication under all of the noise.  “I didn’t mean to, ah, surprise you are anything but I was just wondering—  You see, this is my first time in Washington.”  Well, that was awkward.

She earns a smile with that, though, and her new companion fiddles with their phone without actually looking at it.  “Right.  Cool.  You need help getting somewhere?  We’ll be at my stop pretty soon but I can try to talk you through your route, if you want.”

Huh.  This might be easier, if also shorter, than she’d thought.  “Thank you.  That would be wonderful.  I’m heading for Union Station, if you could just point me in the right direction?”

There’s a blink, eyebrows rising for a moment, and then they grin.  “In that case, just follow me.”  They stand and stretch and Enjolras quickly gets to her feet as well.  “I’m meeting my sister and her husband at Union myself.  Almost forgot so I jumped the wrong line out of Reagan like I was going home instead.”  A hand on their luggage and they glance through the crowd, most likely judging the best path to take.  “Just have to switch tracks up here.  Yellow to Gallery and Red to Union.”

It only makes the vaguest bit of sense but Enjolras takes their word for it and follows close behind them as they head for the door.

Given the number of people on the platform, they decide to wait for the next train to come in and Enjolras is just as glad for that.  In theory, should she embarrass herself or suddenly get the sense that she’d misjudged this person when calling them harmless, escaping while in a station would be much easier than escaping while in a packed Metro car.  So she lets another text be sent, then squares her shoulders and holds out her hand when their eyes land on her again.

“I’m Enjolras by the way.  Thought I’d go ahead and introduce myself, seeing as you’ve been so kind as to help me.”

All she receives for a moment after that is a stare but eventually a hand finds hers.  There’s an instant when she can feel fingers trembling around her own, a vibration in the air before they actually exchange a firm grip and shake.  The contact is strange, though, sends a sort of queasy feeling into the pit of her stomach, triggers a sudden burst of wariness that stands in stark contrast to the accompanying sense of comfort and familiarity.  Around them, for just a moment, the world seems to step sideways, a twitch in time.

On the other end, a smile falters and fingers tremble against hers once again as they pause mid-release before quickly disappearing into a coat pocket.  Then it’s as if nothing has happened, the smile bright and nervous, the figure rocking on his heels.  “Grantaire.  Nice to meet you and all that but it’s really no big deal.  I mean, it kind of pisses me off when people don’t, I don’t know, care about other people I guess?  Like you’ll see a train door close on somebody sometimes and nobody’ll do anything to help and I kind of just want to take everybody who stands back and does nothing times like that and shake them.  So I just, you know, help where I can?”

Anxious rambling seems to be a thing here.  Enjolras does her best to make her smile reassuring as she shakes her head.  This set of interactions is definitely more Combeferre’s area of expertise but at least it’s a deeper conversation than sports or the weather.  She doesn’t really know much about the former and the latter tends to be tremendously boring.

“Just because your actions _should_ be a matter of basic human decency doesn’t make them any less exceptional in reality.  So long as most people still fail to come to the aid of those in need, the people who actually step up and do what must be done for their fellows remain the best that mankind has to offer.”

This doesn’t fall under the forbidden conversational topics, right?  Combeferre only said no politics.  She never mentioned philosophy or ethics or anything else.  Not this time, anyway.  Besides, they seem to be agreed here.  That has to count for something.

The train pulls up and without another word they pile in and squeeze themselves into a similar place to where they’d been before.  Grantaire takes a moment to send another text, holds the phone up in the air for a minute, then stows it again.  Enjolras, meanwhile, wonders exactly how she’s supposed to bring up the topic of gender and pronouns.

“So, uh…”  Grantaire starts talking first, stops a moment, tries again.  “So you just got into DC, right?”  When she confirms this, she gets a laugh.  “Why you headed straight to Union, then?  You haven’t even been here long enough for anybody to make you angry.”

It takes some effort to bite her tongue on any comments that might set off the wrong line of conversation but she manages to keep it down to just “I’m meeting a friend.”

Grantaire nods.  “Cool.  You know what train or bus or whatever you’re waiting for?  My sister’s been up in New York to see some friends.  She’s not down until noon or something so we’re having lunch before we catch the VRE.  Figured I’d just grab some breakfast and wander while I wait.  How ’bout you?”

Enjolras can’t help but stare for a moment before slowly admitting.  “Combeferre’s coming down from New York, too.”

That earns her stare its perfect match.

Eventually, somewhere around the time that the driver comes over the speaker to announce L’Enfant Plaza, the two of them finally come to the decision that they’ll find some breakfast together and (“—assuming I don’t creep you out too much or something, I guess.”  “Trust me, I could definitely take you if you were a creeper.”) keep each other company while they wait.  In the process of this, Enjolras also learns quite a few things about her new—  Well, Courfeyrac would probably be saying “friend” by now  or “friend?” with a question mark and a hopeful side glance.  More important than exactly what to label this current arrangement, however, Enjolras has discovered that Grantaire tends toward male pronouns (“So the guy just walks off and my sister—she’s like Hello!   Our Best Man’s here!  Day before wedding!  Need his tux, too, asshole!”) but clams up whenever any sort of actual gender issue arises (“Yeah I, uh, yeah.  It’s cool.  Let him go.  I get ma’amed all the time.  I’m used to it.”) and has a habit of rambling about people or places or things that mean something to him (“I mean, it’s pretty cool if you’re into that sort of thing, you know?  Like it’s real pretty all year but then they light the whole place up for Christmas and it’s—  I—  Er, sorry.  This is probably really boring.”) but doesn’t seem  to have the self-confidence to ever really talk about himself.  It’s all very interesting, if occasionally a bit frustrating but she supposes that she should just be happy with whatever she gets, seeing as they’ve still only just met and she’s well aware that she can’t just click with everyone the way she did when first meeting Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

They switch trains at Gallery Place, a station even more crowded than the others, and they barely manage to squeeze in before the doors close.  In fact, the doors actually catch the one end of Grantaire’s scarf and he grumbles about it but ultimately shrugs as if it’s no problem at all.  He can reel it in at the next stop, he says, and then they’ll need to shove through to the other side because doors open to the left at Union.  Enjolras shakes her head and can’t really help but smile.

“What’s with the scarf, anyway?”  She tugs on the free end a bit in emphasis.  “There is way more of this thing than there needs to be, which I might understand if it was a Doctor Who thing but…”

Grantaire’s eyes roll upward for a moment as he sighs, almost dreamily.  “What I wouldn’t give for a Tom Baker scarf, you have no idea.”  That said, he shrugs and adjusts the loops around his neck as his gaze drops toward the floor.  “An ex knit it for me.  Seemed like kind of a waste to get rid of it when we broke up and it’s not like it’s the scarf’s fault everything blew up in my face so...”

Oh.  Well, that’s… awkward.  There’s a moment of silence before Enjolras takes a deep breath and changes the subject without a second thought.  “So, since you’re my only local acquaintance, what else would you suggest we do while we’re in town?”

For a moment, Grantaire looks remarkably grateful.  Then he starts talking again and Enjolras simply does her best to listen and nod in all of the appropriate places.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned. Sometimes this Grantaire curses a lot.

When they arrive at Union Station, which is also rather packed with people (“It’s a transportation hub,” Grantaire explains.  “Metro, bus, train, VRE – commuters, tourists, shoppers – it’s a pretty steady busy this time of year.”), Enjolras finds herself particularly grateful for the company of someone who actually knows what to do and where to go.  She could have figured it out on her own, sure, but it’s so much easier this way and far less uncomfortable than trying to act like she has direction and purpose while actually still vaguely lost.  Besides, Grantaire is pleasant enough and he seems to enjoy playing tour guide about as much as he seems to enjoy babbling about the city (and the people he cares about).  As far as locals go, she easily could have made the acquaintance of someone so much worse.

Breakfast plans, it turns out, involve bagels.  More specifically, bagel sandwiches from Einstein Brothers with coffee and hot chocolate (“I had way too much coffee on my flight,” he says.  “That and I, uh, just really like cocoa?”).  The shop front is about as busy as anything else and they have to wait a little while but it’s worth it because Enjolras is definitely more interested in this sandwich than she’d been in the food offered on her flight this morning and the coffee is certainly better than anything brewed on a plane.  Grantaire even manages to find them a place to sit, real chairs at a real table with a bit of space to stow their luggage out of the way, and they fall into a relatively comfortable sort of silence within the barrage of background noise as they eat.  When he’s done, of course, Grantaire has no trouble filling the void.  It’s a trait she’s already starting to find familiar.  If he’s not focused on a task, he’s going off on some odd tangent and, if he’s not doing that either, he’s fidgeting with his scarf or arranging items into balanced displays or unfolding and refolding a fresh napkin into a paper crane.  He just seems to have trouble with not having something to do.

“Bagels are just more involved.”  He’s leaned back into his chair a bit, hands moving while he talks, and Enjolras simply watches and listens, as much amused as strangely fascinated.  They’ve both finished their meals and their drinks at this point and she’d been debating going for a second cup when he’d started talking about homemade baked goods.  First it was the fact that he usually gets bagels instead of doughnuts when offered the choice because he apparently makes doughnuts more often at home (Doughnuts.  More often.  At home.  _He makes them_?) and now they’ve moved on to why that is and she’s still sort of stuck on the regularly making doughnuts part.

“They’re basically just a ring of yeast bread and anything with yeast in it is going to take more work.  Like, you can use instant yeast and all that but there are still just more steps.  Doughnuts you just mix it and bake or fry it and ta da!  Ready to eat.”  He lays one hand out, palm up.  “Bagels you’ve got more steps and way more time before your work—”  The other hand comes down to match the first.  “—hits the table.”  Then both hands are gone, his arms crossed over his chest and shoulders hunched in a little as he sits up and looks off into all of the people.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s totally worth it but even most big bakeries – like chain stores – don’t work from scratch at the storefront level anymore.  Having a variety of breakfast items fresh and from scratch in time for their morning clientele would mean an overnight baking shift or double- triple- quadruple the staff, depending.  They’d have to pay more people more money if they wanted to do that and they get just about the same results from freezing product at a central location and shipping out.  It’s not like the people buying their stuff are going to be able to tell the difference.  Most of their customers have probably never had a fresh scratch bagel in their life and the fact that the store can still claim that their product is ‘fresh baked’ as long as it comes out of their in-store oven or boiler vat or deep fryer still gives them a leg up on the competition with less work, fewer employees, and higher profits.”

When Grantaire finally stops talking and stands, it takes a moment for Enjolras to realize that she should be doing the same.  How exactly had this most recent digression gone from breakfast preferences to commentary on the US labor crisis?  In a slightly rocky but perfectly logical fashion, actually, like notes for a basic economics essay or the rough draft of a rant on a forum.

They clean their table, push in their chairs, grab their bags, and head into the crowd again, both reaching for their phones at the same time, and Grantaire looks at the time with a nod.  “We might as well just head up to the main hall.  Won’t be too long before the trains here.”

Enjolras voices her agreement before gesturing for him to lead the way, then she falls in behind him as she furiously taps out a quick, one-handed text.

**Enjolras** : _You should be proud of me._

They’re on the escalator when the response comes.

**Combeferre** :  _I’m always proud of you._

**Combeferre** :  _Why?_

Enjolras nearly drops her phone before very hurriedly glancing around to make sure that no one, especially Grantaire, has noticed the fact that she may or may not be blushing for absolutely no reason.  No one even looks at her oddly for stumbling when she steps onto the next floor, though, so she’s fine.  Grantaire even keeps his eyes on the path ahead when he leans back to say he’ll do his best not to lose her.  She feels well enough at that point to laugh, reach up, and grab one end of his scarf.

“There!  Now _I_ won’t lose _you_.  This thing is good for something after all.”

Keeping his pace, Grantaire just chuckles, and she has to take a moment to figure out the semantics of her current situation.  It ends with her awkwardly looping the scarf around her wrist in a loose knot so that she can tap out her next message.

**Enjolras** : _!!!_

**Enjolras** : _Scarf Guy just got right up on top of some socioeconomics and I didn’t say a word._

**Combeferre** : _???_

**Combeferre** : _I am more and more interested to meet this person._

**Combeferre** : _Also please tell me that you actually know his name?_

**Enjolras** : _Don’t worry.  I know it.  I just don’t know how to spell it._

**Combeferre** : _Oh good.  Otherwise that would make introductions very awkward._

**Combeferre** : _Also are you ignoring my emphatic punctuation?_

Enjolras doesn’t answer that, just shoves her phone into her pocket and takes a proper hold of the scarf again.  The knot was out anyway and it’s actually proving too convenient for it to be worth letting go.  With so many people jostling them both, they’d probably end up separated in no time.  Not that she’s likely to have trouble finding the main stretch of the station but she might have some trouble finding him again.  Having more time to take measure is simply a bonus.

The thing of it is, no matter how many times someone describes her as charming or comments on how magnetic her personality can be, particularly when she’s discussing her passions, Enjolras has never found it terribly easy to make real friends.  Her connection with Combeferre and Courfeyrac is an exception to the rule, of course.  She probably couldn’t explain that situation to anyone outside of it, no matter how hard she might try.  It had been a new and different and, in some aspects, frightening experience to meet two people to whom she could honestly say that it felt like she’d known them forever.  She’s never actually said any such thing to them but that’s beside the point.  With anyone else it was always such a long, drawn out process and sometimes calling someone a “friend” just felt forced no matter how hard you tried to make it sound right.  Becoming friends with Combeferre and Courfeyrac had just felt natural.  That’s all there was to it, end of discussion.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is another new and, frankly, rather odd case.  They’d technically met by literally running into one another – an absolutely ridiculous way to start – and he’d followed by showing her some small kindness that she felt compelled to somehow repay.  He didn’t particularly seem to care, of course, didn’t give any indication that she owed him for anything that he’d done but that didn’t matter.  To a degree, that didn’t even quite process.  As he himself had noted on the train, people watch each other suffer every day without a single show of concern.  Helping someone who looks lost might seem like nothing to him but with acts of compassion so rare—  And he won’t talk about himself.  That just seems strange.  Not that Enjolras is in the habit of gloating about her accomplishments or going out of her way to highlight her strong points but most people she knows who are as cheerfully talkative as Grantaire had so far been through much of their time together at least mentioned their job or their schooling, their likes and dislikes at some point within the first few hours of conversation.  Thus far, with Grantaire, she could guess and assume many things but there is very little definite fact for her to hold on to.  There’s very little, that is, beyond the fact that he has, up to this point, been – well – very nice.

When they finally reach their destination and can stand still again, he sets to texting (“My sister,” he says, waving his phone with an apologetic smile.) and, suddenly unreasonably frustrated, so does she.

**Enjolras** : _How do I do this?_

**Combeferre** : _Sorry?_

**Combeferre** : _I mean what?_

**Enjolras** : _This weird acquaintanceship thing._

**Enjolras** : _How does this work?_

It takes Combeferre almost a full minute to respond and Enjolras is hoping for something long and introspective that will answer all of her questions even without them being asked.  Even short and introspective and full of answers would be acceptable.  Maybe just a single line to set up for that sort of thing.  Those are the replies that Combeferre is especially good at, after all.  When it comes to Enjolras and Courfeyrac, she just reads their minds and tells them what they need to hear – though not always what they want to hear – in exactly the way that they need to hear it.

What she gets is

**Combeferre** : _You really like this guy, don’t you?_

Enjolras can’t remember the last time she wanted so badly to just put her face in her hands and scream.

**Enjolras** : _I am screaming internally right now I’ll have you know._

**Enjolras** : _I really like him in so far as he has been very nice and very helpful_

**Enjolras** : _and he got me through all morning waiting for you to get here without me freaking out about this whole meeting each other thing_

**Enjolras** : _as in I didn’t panic at all not once_

**Enjolras** : _and sometimes he touches on the topics I’m not allowed to talk about without you_

**Enjolras** : _and I swear I’ve been listening to everything but he makes these points that are perfectly valid when I think about them but they just do not make any sense when they’re coming out of his mouth_

**Enjolras:** _this guy is a walking talking trash file and he keeps coughing up bits and pieces of social commentary articles that someone decided weren’t good enough but they ARE they just need a lot of revision_

**Enjolras** : _when will you get here?_

There’s a sudden swell in the noise level and Enjolras looks up to see Grantaire respectfully keeping his eyes away from her phone, his own stuffed back into his pocket and his fingers now left fidgeting with his hoodie’s drawstrings.  He smiles, rocking on his heels a bit, and she hopes it doesn’t look too awkward when she tries to smile back.  Then her text alert goes off again.

**Combeferre** : _I’ll see you in just a minute._

Enjolras takes a deep, steadying breath (this is the first time she’s really felt the First Meeting jitters since right after she got off the plane, jeez) and stows her phone as well.  “Your sister on her way?”

Scanning the crowd, Grantaire nods.  “They oughtta be out any minute.”  There’s a pause, one a little bit too heavy for Enjolras’s liking and she readies herself for—  “Um, how ’bout your friend?”  That’s definitely not what was originally heading out of his mouth.

“She’s on her way.”  Enjolras watches him from the corner of her eye as he continues rocking back and forth.  He’s nervous.  She can read that.  Why now when he’s hardly seemed to think twice about anything all day?  There are plenty of possible reasons, she supposes, but it’s sort of—  Combeferre should be here – Courfeyrac, even.  They’re both so much better at this.

“Are you all right?”

He looks about as surprised to be asked as she feels to be asking and they stare at one another for a moment before he snaps his attention away again.  The action is accompanied by an almost frantic nod and he goes back to messing with his scarf, occasionally reaching up to tug and twirl points and whorls into his hair.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m fine.  I’m just, uh—  I’m not very good at—  I mean, this might sound weird but—  Like I, uh—  Shit.”

She is not going to get annoyed.  She is not going to get frustrated.  She is not going to let the sudden influx of stuttering fill words make her say something that she will instantly regret.  Those are the sorts of terrible things that only terrible people do and they’ve only even crossed her mind as possibilities because she’s suddenly nervous, too.  Because maybe he’s about to say something that will ruin this weird, budding, friendship-sort-of thing or because she’s about to ruin it with whatever she says in response and she is ready for Combeferre to get off of the train now.

Then something happens.  In fact, many somethings happen.  Many somethings happen and they do so in rapid succession.

First, Grantaire starts to look angry, though not at anything or anyone in particular, except perhaps himself, which is in and of itself upsetting.

Second, Enjolras suddenly hears something behind her, a new voice in this story, strange and sharply stage whispering, “I don’t know, dude.  Most failtastic proposal ever, maybe?”

Third, she feels something snap in her brain and something crack under the sharp blow of her knuckles.

Fourth, a much more familiar voice very loudly and shrilly calls her name.

It’s funny, really, the way that people sort of make space, keep their distance, but don’t actually do anything useful.  Just like on the Metro, they see what’s happening but they pretty much just ignore it, just go about their business and don’t get involved.  Maybe they’ll talk about it later with someone, a quirk tidbit about their day.  Guess what happened at the station this morning.

She winces a little and flexes her hand.  “This is why I stay on the internet.”

“You know,” says another strange voice and this time Enjolras spins around to find a pleasantly smiling young woman leaning against Grantaire, about an inch taller than he is and making the best of it, “when Seamus said someone had been punched near where we’d said we’d meet my brother, I kind of expected my brother to be a bigger part of the whole thing.”

“This was not—”  It’s Combeferre this time, hands over her face, and Enjolras feels her heart sort of swoop down into the pit of her stomach where it can properly hide itself in shame.  “—how this trip was supposed to get started.”

A young man with a noticeably Irish accent (Seamus, she assumes) asks, “So what happened?”

And there is a full minute during which not a single soul has an answer.

Eventually it’s Grantaire who shatters their little bubble of silence.  He bursts into the giggles, face beet red and expression absolutely helpless, and he eventually just plops down and seats himself on the floor.  “I have no idea what’s going on anymore!”  His voice is higher than normal and his arms move, hands trembling as they flail through a familiar series of conversational gestures.  “Everything was fine and we were just waiting here and then you said to invite her and her friend to lunch with us so I tried but it’s been a really long day, you guys, and I have had way too much time around way too many people so now I’m just fucking exhausted and I knew she was just sort of stuck there fucking waiting for my brain to let me put some fucking words together so I got frustrated and kind of anxious and like I didn’t want to just fucking panic in the middle of the fucking train station and then she just turned around _and fucking punched a guy_.”

The flailing stops on that last bit, a sharp indication in her general direction, and Enjolras just reminds herself to breathe – something Grantaire doesn’t seem to be having a whole lot of luck doing – and presses her lips together into a tight, flat line.  Is he done?  Should she say something?  She’s a bit surprised to realize that she really is beginning to recognize his speech habits already, like how he often takes a pause after a major point of emphasis when he’s telling a story.

This pause stretches out a bit longer than usual, however, before he leans forward and tugs a loop of his scarf back up over his head.  “Sorry.  Word vomit.”  He pulls his hood up over that.  “I’m just going to die here,” he mumbles into all that knitting.  “Don’t mind me.”

His sister screws up her face for a moment before her expression goes serene and she crouches down in front of him.  “You’re not going to die anywhere, you butt.  Not today and not on my watch.  I know you’ve had a bad day but—”

“Bad day?”  He barely looks up at her when he giggles again.  “This stopped being a bad day on the train out of Reagan.  Are you kidding me?  This has been the weirdest best day ever.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up consumed by the holidays. Sorry! Anyway, I don't know when this idea actually grew a plot but it's trying real hard to foster one into being.

Following Grantaire’s directions is fairly easy and Enjolras is already pretty good at judging when to wait for the next train and went to just squeeze in.  She explains it as something to do with how quickly you can spot an opening large enough for you and Combeferre admits that that sounds entirely logical but she’ll leave the spacial reasoning to other people until she’s more familiar with how the D.C. Metro works versus the more familiar Subway back home.  Enjolras shrugs but when a group of rowdy young men end up pressing everyone in toward them, she mutters something about it definitely being easier with a local.

They arrive at the airport in a Metro car that contains almost as many suitcases as it does people but in which only half of the loaded passengers seem to have calculated enough space for both themselves and their baggage.  Sitting on their own luggage, Combeferre is fairly certain, is about all that allows them enough even vaguely comfortable space to breathe.  On the bright side, however, the car almost entirely empties at their stop and that makes it a lot easier for them to escape as well, though not so much for them to get out of the station.  It’s a packed walk spent nearly losing track of one another until most of the crowd heads off toward check-in and the two of them join the rest heading toward claims.

“The last time I got into a crowd like that, I just hung on to a scarf.”

Combeferre laughs, loudly, which draws a bit of attention, then ducks her head down and settles for a grin and apologetic wave to whoever might still be looking.  “Sorry.  I was kind of wondering about that thing.  It looked huge.  No wonder that’s what you latched on to.”  She pauses before laughing again, this time much more quietly.  “Figuratively and literally, I guess.”

They both giggle a little to themselves as they silently agree upon the best place to stand and wait.

About five minutes later they’ve already transitioned their conversation into current events on the forum, which mostly seems to be composed of creepy speculation and asshole comments re:  their vacation (“Seriously?  You’d think they’d be having a field day without us there to roast them!”  “It just proves that most of them are less interested in political journals than gossip magazines.”), when Combeferre gets a notice that makes her jump up straight with a quiet exclamation and completely derail everything.  Enjolras, caught mid-sentence, trails off to stare in mild confusion.  It only serves to make Combeferre want to hide in absolute embarrassment.

“Sorry!  Sorry.”  She huffs and bustles about, checking the time and stuffing her phone into her pocket and hunkering down before taking her phone back out to check the time again.  “It’s just that did you know that we have—”  A wrinkled nose and a vague wave of her hand and she sighs.  “I think there are people around the forum who’ve essentially turned us into our own weird little fandom.”

The look Enjolras gives her at that is priceless.

Combeferre hesitates a bit before flipping back to the proper page and handing over her phone, eyes intent upon the most miniscule reactions to what’s on the screen.  “They’ve stashed the thread under the general talk heading and I don’t usually go in there anymore but I got a message from someone about, um, watching out for fans, essentially, and when I followed the link…”

She’s pretty sure that the corner of Enjolras’s one eye is developing a twitch.

“I’m sorry!  Maybe I should have waited until we were in the hotel to show you and Courfeyrac both.”

The twitch tightens into a glare, still focused upon the scrolling words.  “No.  No this way maybe I’ll be less angry when we show Courf and she inevitably gets upset.”

Combeferre is about to suggest she not look at the previous page when the phone is handed back.

“You have a message from a mod.”  Enjolras gets out her own phone.  “I do, too, plus one from someone else.  Probably the same person who warned you.”

“I suppose that is likely.”  Once her messages are open, she adds, “Mods warning of, but of course hardly doing anything about, our so-called fans—”

“Of course.”

“And the other was from somebody who goes by tautology?”

Enjolras simply nods, obviously focused upon something else.  “This is hardly even a message.  I thought I was missing something but it really does just say ‘Beware the moon...’”

Combeferre tilts her head to one side, thoughtfully curious, before her eyes widen a moment and she laughs.  “Oh!  I think I get it!  They didn’t really write me a message, either.   Let me guess, though.  They linked you to a part of that thread starting with weregirl or whoever, sweet until you pay attention, then she turns into a creep.”  Upon receiving an emphatic nod of confirmation she grins.  “I think it’s a quote.  Mine was ‘Beware the beast Man, for he is the Devil’s pawn.’ and linked me to mistervist.”

“Ewwww!”

They both nearly leap straight out of their skins, Combeferre does, in fact, manage to drop her cell phone, and Enjolras clutches her chest as if she’s just had a miniature heart attack.  Their new companion rambles at them even as she takes stock of all this.

“Why is the first topic of conversation I hear all about creepy male feminist guy?  What’s he done now?  I’ve missed something amazing, haven’t I?  Oh my frick, ok!”  Launching in, Courfeyrac takes them each by an elbow and spins them to face her, shoulder to shoulder with one another.  “You’re not dying are you?”  No.  “Good.  And your phone is ok?”  Yes.  “Also good!  So that means no damage done and you’ve practically been here all day without me and I have been all day without internet or anyone to talk to or anything to do because the person next to me on the plane was terrifying and it was a short flight so I just pretended to be asleep the whole time but that was so frustrating!  So please please please  hurry up and tell me what’s happened?  What’s going on?  What did I miss?”

There’s a long pause there, during which Courfeyrac waits expectantly, before Combeferre lets out a giggle and Enjolras sighs.

“It can wait.”  A smile and a nod to mark the decision and Combeferre puts her phone away.  “At least until we get to the hotel, it can wait.”

Enjolras barely manages to stow her device as well before Courfeyrac squeals in excitement and lunges forward again.  “My sweethearts!”

Then her hands clasp their hands and all three of them freeze.

It seems almost contradictory, the end result being so instinctively described in such cold terms when the origin is bright and burning and swift as lightning.  The first impact fuses them together where flesh meets and fingers curl and there’s an instant of panic, on Combeferre’s end anyway, where it feels as if they’re moving, as if they’re being shoved toward one another and pulled away all at once.  Their bodies are what’s being pushed forward, she decides, her internal monologue distant yet determined, and the essence of them is what’s being pulled back.  Physically, they are connected, grasping, unable to release, while something else is not quite allowed to touch.  That is, not outside of one single instant, outside of the speed of light, speed of sound, flash and snap of being propelled back into reality as if time is of the essence even as if the world around them acts as if they’ve never left, as if nothing has happened at all.  It’s a moment of spiritual vertigo that leaves them on the verge of collision and all three start back despite themselves.

“What?”  It’s Courfeyrac who speaks first, so often awkwardly unable to handle silence under pressure because, as she had once explained to them before, give her something direct, something to think about, talk about, feel about, fight about and she will latch right on to it with her hands and teeth and help a cause to stand until its sturdy and even after.  Just heat her heart and earn her passion and give the monster a name and she will be there.  But don’t—  Don’t ever leave her with the Things she can’t identify, the creeping, crawling situations she can’t connect to something brighter, unnamed feelings stuck between cobblestones and sensations that she can’t label or describe or quite reach below a rusted grate.

Or had she been the one to say any of the at all?

“’Ferre?”  Her voice is higher than usually, cracks a little, rumbles down into the clearing of her throat as she stares, hesitant, it seems, to move.

Enjolras is the first to let go when she raises her steadying hand to Combeferre’s shoulder.  “Hey.  Are you all right?”

Sure she is!  Except she didn’t even know she was leaning until she straightened back up.

She takes a deep breath to collect herself and steps back, though the smallest changes in proximity to her friends seems to throw everything off.  “I’m fine.  I don’t—  I’m fine.”  Unless she was the only one who felt any of that but now how to you ask someone—?  How do you say—?

“All right so that was, uh, odd?”  Courfeyrac.  Bless you, Courfeyrac.  “It _was_ odd, right?  For everyone?”

Enjolras looks a bit uncomfortable but nods.

Combeferre closes her eyes a moment, only to open them with her own nod of relief.  “For everyone.”  A pause as she glances around them—  “Well, everyone in so far as you mean the three of us, anyway?”

“Four,” Enjolras mumbles, frowning now and squinting at something on the floor.  She doesn’t even look up to take in their expressions of wary interest and confusion before continuing with, “We’ll talk on our way to the hotel.”

 

They luck into a group of vacant seats and use stacking their bags in, under, and around the extra one as both a means of maximizing space and a barricade against strangers.  Enjolras checks the map with a nod before sitting down and they’ve all leaned in by the time the train is moving.  It’s a delicate balance, three sets of shoulders hunkering down, not too far apart but not so close as to be touching.  All of them, Combeferre realizes, are viewing this with different degrees of wonder, confusion, and fear.

Enjolras clears her throat for their attention.  “So this is going to sound extra strange probably—”

“Oh yeah,” Courfeyrac grumbles.  “Like anything really seems normal right now.”

“—but that – I don’t know what it was that just happened but it may have almost happened before—”

“Almost?”

“—when I shook hands with Grantaire.”

“Who’s Grantaire?”

“Except he took his hand back really quickly and—”

“Wait a minute!”  This time Courfeyrac very suddenly leans further forward and the other two very nearly knock heads trying not to get hit by hers.  The look on her face says that that may have very well been precisely what she was hoping for.

“Now,” she says to them, leaning back enough to cross her arms over her chest, “we are starting this story from a completely different beginning.  It may be your opinion that you can just throw another name into the mix up front and skip back to add all of the details later but I am of the opinion that such tactics only work when writing essays and conversation leans more toward the fashion of written speeches so can we remember that at least one of us has been entirely out of the loop for a span of several hours and therefore has absolutely no idea what is going on or who you are talking about?”  Any attempt at command gets lost in a pout.  “Besides, I am finally in the same place as my two best friends for the first time ever and I can’t even really enjoy that because weird mystical stuff is suddenly happening, so can we at least make sure that all three of us are on the same page and actually understand all of the words coming out of one another’s mouths?”

There’s a silence, then Enjolras bites her lip with a smile and Combeferre laughs as she drops her face into her hands.

“Sorry.”  Leaning up to place her chin in her hands, Combeferre silently blesses Courfeyrac once again.  “Enjolras met someone this morning.  They met on the Metro.”

“Airport,” Enjolras corrects.  “We technically met at the airport.”

Combeferre tilts her head in question while Courfeyrac looks intrigued.

Enjolras pretends she’s not blushing under the now undivided attention and shrugs.  “I think I sort of almost ran him over in the crowd leaving the baggage claims.  We were both texting while walking and he tried to apologize but his scarf—”

“That scarf!”  With a noise of glee, Combeferre looks at Courfeyrac and informs her, quite frankly, “You have got to see this scarf.  It’s amazing.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Fabulous!”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s the only reason he didn’t lose you on the Metro.”

“OK true, on that count it is pretty fantastic.”

Courfeyrac squeals and hides her face in her hands to peer out between her fingers.  “That was so cute!”

The other two stop to stare at her a moment.

Then Enjolras moves on with a tremendously put-upon (but her smile says not really) sigh.  “The point is, I met this guy at the airport and he helped me get around the city.  His name is Grantaire and he seemed really nice and interesting so Combeferre may have gotten his number.”

“On her phone.”  Combeferre points and Courfeyrac giggles.

“Yes, on my phone but!”  Trying to seem serious again, Enjolras leans back in.  It doesn’t work, really.  The severity and intense feeling of immediate danger have passed and they can all feel it.  They have time now.  If anything is going to happen (what on earth could possibly happen?), they have time.  When she goes on, it’s to keep them all equally informed and not due to any eminent necessity.  “I may have felt a much, much smaller version of what happened with the three of us when I first shook hands with him.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever later, here I am, posting a double installment with minimal editing because I'm lazy and also it would just take me even longer to post.

“So which do we talk about first?” Courfeyrac already has her computer in her lap, having taken up position at the head of one of the beds. “Creepers on the internet or our developing history of out of body experiences?”

Combeferre takes a seat at the nearby table and starts spreading her own electronics while Enjolras sticks with just her phone for the time being. The two look to one another while their third patiently awaits the verdict. The hotel wifi is taking its own sweet time to connect properly anyway.

“Creepers,” is the final word and Combeferre says it at the exact same time that she looks back down at her computer and frowns and wrinkles her nose in the most adorable way, which shouldn’t even be possible like how is that even human, to be that cute and smart at the same time? And it would be really embarrassing if she could hear Courfeyrac actually thinking all of this but she can’t and she keeps on talking instead. “The, uh, other stuff is going to take a lot longer to work out, I think.”

With a nod of agreement, Courfeyrac ducks down to focus on the fact that websites are loading for her now and pulls up the forum to find, as expected, two messages waiting. She doesn’t even bother with the one from the mods. It’ll just be a form letter they wrote up with the pertinent details changed depending upon the recipient. The other, however, she leaps upon with great interest.

Combeferre, now doing her share of waiting for the internet to work, peers toward the bed. “What’s yours say?”

Courfeyrac sits up straight and dramatically clears her throat. “Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun / The frumious Bandersnatch!”

There’s a moment of silence before Combeferre giggles and Enjolras lets a smile slip.

“Let me guess,” the latter finally says. “Yours links to Alice.”

Settling back down into the pillows, Courfeyrac shrugs. “I don’t know. I refuse to look. If Alice is involved, though, I’d say that’s a good bet and, considering what’s going on… This whole thing is just way too gross for me.” It barely takes a second for her to overthink potential reactions to that statement, which means it’s probably just as well she doesn’t look because then she’d end up worrying about it and ugh! Awkward! This is so awkward. “Not the whole idea that people would think maybe we’d be kind of great together for real instead of just on the internet or whatever but that people are making a big deal about it and talking like we’re not even real people and you know…”

“The fact that they’re treating us like fictional characters is the biggest worry, yes.” When Combeferre picks up the line of reasoning, Courfeyrac feels a sudden flood of relief and responds with an enthusiastic nod.

To make it better, Enjolras isn’t far behind with her two cents. “There’ve been people talking about us like we’re superheroes for a while. I guess it was only a matter of time but that doesn’t exactly make it any better.” She sprawls across the foot of the bed with a frown and a furrowed brow, turning her phone over and over in her hand. “Question is, what do we do about it? The mods here are obviously useless. They’ve locked the thread and issued warnings but I feel pretty safe in assuming they knew that this was going on and just weren’t reacting until someone else pointed it out.”

“Which,” Courfeyrac agrees, “doesn’t make you feel very confident the same thing won’t just happen all over again, does it?”

The other two both shake their heads.

It’s silent again, stretching out for a minute, maybe an hour (no, not really), it’s a little hard to tell, but finally she clears her throat, glancing between the two of them and doing her best not to get flustered when they both look over at the exact same time. “So why don’t we just make a forum of our own?”

Both just take a moment to stare.

“Well?” She scrunches up her face a bit, hoping for a better response. “Anybody?” The response she gets is another giggle from Combeferre and a smile from Enjolras and all right no! Not what she was looking for! “I’m serious here!”

Combeferre is, again, the one who eventually nods, expression turning thoughtful. “It would take some work to set up and it wouldn’t really do much to stop anyone talking but I think I see the point. We’d have more control over the information that people could see. It might make our discussion easier to track, as well, because they could all be saved on our own boards where all three of us would have access as opposed to each of us saving them individually. Not so much an open forum as a place to more easily keep track of other people’s forums.”

Enjolras makes them both jump when she sits up like a shot, a sudden fire in her eyes and face split with a broad grin. “And a place to more easily keep track of other people.” She pulls her legs up and tucks them in beneath her as she starts tapping away on her phone. “We could keep lists of like-minded individuals and of the people we come up against most often. Categorize our – well, for lack of a better word right now – enemies by which beliefs they most commonly espouse and keep track of the arguments we’ve already had with each. Categorize our support and potential friends by how their beliefs and arguments overlap our own.”

“Maybe we could even recruit people! Build a little team to give us more perspective!”

Combeferre isn’t giggling this time. She’s all-out laughing. “I feel like we’re collectively birthing the most brilliant monster right now.” Then she goes a bit pink in the cheeks and drops her face in her hands to mumble, “That developed a terrible image. I’m so sorry.”

Courfeyrac leans and stretches until she can just barely pat the other on her back. “It’s all right. At least you tried and the meaning was not lost.”

Enjolras rolls her eyes but smiles. “This could seriously be a very good idea, though I’m not entirely sold on recruitment.”

“Why not?” The indignant exclamation is accompanied by Courfeyrac very nearly falling off the bed as she tries to sit back up – Combeferre reaching out just in case – and Enjolras doesn’t even have time to respond before a finger is being jabbed in her general direction. “I’m not saying just invite people to join us on a whim or just because they don’t give us the creeps right away. More like we should get to know people who take up all the same causes as we do and maybe invite them to join if all three of us agree after a while that they’re trustworthy! You know, just like the three of us sort of did with each other?”

Combeferre pulls her hand back to cover her smile.

Enjolras’s lips twitch into a similar expression. “All right. I concede.”

Courfeyrac grins in triumph.

 

It’s well and truly dark outside by the time they all stretch and groan at nearly the exact same time. The synchronicity hasn’t come to be any less startling but they’re learning to recover more quickly from the surprise and, for her part, Courfeyrac really just finds it all oddly comforting. They’re like this online so why not in real life?

“So,” she finally pipes up, “Who wants to start?”

They had decided to start off by hunting down as much information as they can find on this tautology person and their activities. Turns out, though, as Combeferre compiles their notes, that there’s not a whole lot to find. The account has been registered since almost the conception of the forum and shows some activity early on but the actual threads (primarily innocuous memes anyway) were all archived during the overhaul that had followed the forum switching hands a few years ago. There’s a raptor wearing a top hat in their icon, no title or tagline or signature to go by, and their location rather trollishly reads “your face.”

“That’s it, “Combeferre finally announces, after Enjolras asks what else she’s found for the fourth time, growing increasingly more frustrated with each interruption, though the irritation is notably directed at herself as she continues to click around, trying to find more. “I’ve even checked against all of the other forums that any of us frequent and nothing. Almost none of the people who were active when this person was active are still active now but they’re apparently around just enough to use this person like a legend. Like the mods actually use tautology as a sort of boogieman if you go back and really read some of the old rules. If you start taking things too far and manage to hide them from the mods, tautology is going to find you which, you know, if the current mods ever actually moderated, that might sound legitimately threatening for the internet.” She rests her chin against her palm, takes a deep breath, and sighs. “Basically, all we can really know is our own experience, which honestly feels to me more like this person is just trying to, um, maintain some degree of integrity? If that makes any sense. They just come by sometimes and force the mods to recognize that things are happening, hold others accountable for their actions. There’s nothing short of tracking their IP address that I can do to get more information than that.”

Enjolras huffs in frustration.

Courfeyrac hesitates for a moment before suggesting, “Maybe one of us could try to message them?”

This time, when they both look at her, she very pointedly keeps her eyes on Combeferre. Eventually, Enjolras follows her gaze and starts staring, too. Combeferre turns a very bright shade of pink and covers her face with her hands.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re reasonable.” Enjolras is the one to respond, much to Courfeyrac’s relief, and they seem to share the same opinion on the matter. “You’re less prone to direct interrogation than I am and less prone to rambling than Courfeyrac. If any of us is likely to get any sort of useful response, it’s going to be you.”

Combeferre wrinkles her nose but ultimately concedes. She’ll try to compose something tomorrow and she wants them both to read it before she sends it. “For now, though, I think it’s time to get some sleep.”

It takes another twenty minutes to figure out sleeping arrangements.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is violence and death mentioned in this chapter. It will not be the only one like this but I'll do my best to warn before each. In this instance, the violence relates to WITCH TRIALS, including the murdering for suspects and the hanging of those convicted. There is also mention but no depiction of a child being killed.

The first thing of which she becomes aware is the fact that she’s running. She’s not sure why but her instincts tell her that it’s important to keep going and so she does, weaving through trees at full stride, ducking under branches and not looking back. It isn’t that she’s running away from anything, though she knows that it’s important she not be seen or, worse, caught. Rather there’s somewhere that she needs to be, something that she needs to do, and she must hurry or something terrible might happen instead. In fact, that terrible thing is very close to happening even as she rushes toward the edge of the forest, ribs aching and chest burning and the determination to not be caught fading with each step. What will such caution matter, after all, if they die?

Wait. What?

The second thing that she realizes is that she is muttering to herself. She can feel her lips moving, the vibration of her vocal cords, but she can’t hear the words. They’re too quiet, mumbled, blurring like the landscape in her peripheral vision. Yet she can tell, just to further her confusion, that it isn’t her voice. At least, it’s not what she recognizes as such. It’s much deeper, even while heightened by the effort currently being expended to suppress a state of panic.

The third thing is a snap of awareness, a sudden wall of facts. She is currently in the body of a man. He is of average build for his time and place. He is in his mid-twenties. He has been accused of something but what? He has been sentenced to death upon capture but what is his crime? What has he do—? _Witchcraft_. He has been accused of witchcraft! He isn’t alone. His friends— They’ve all been declared witches. All of them. _All of them_. Sentenced to death. _No trial_.

His thoughts, which she struggles to tell apart from her own, descend into panicked repetition. _Find them. Find them. Find them._ That’s when a hand shoots out from behind a tree to stop her—him—them. The body’s instinctive reaction is to raise a fist, ready to fight if necessary, but they don’t swing. He recognizes the young woman in front of them. _Luce_.

“Christopher!” The darker tone of Luce’s skin makes her wide eyes brighter. Her dress is torn ( _more so than usual_ ) and there is neither hair nor fabric to soften her half-starved features ( _where has her covering gone_ ), leaving nothing but the trees and underbrush to frame her. He thinks she is lovely ( _Jeffrey has always been a lucky man_ ) but such thoughts merely lead to other names ( _Chonstans! Ester!_ ) and they duck down into a crouch with fresh panic blurring in their mind.

“Luce, where are the others?”

Her response is choked and quiet and desperate. “Christopher— Christopher, they are lost!”

Courfeyrac and Luce both are taken aback by the sound that comes out of him then, more a growl than a word. “No!”

“Yes!” Luce grasps at his hands, keeps him from standing and darting away as Courfeyrac silently wills him to stay. She is confused and uncomfortable and fascinated and he must stay.

“They are lost,” Luce repeats, looking him in the eye, her voice steadier but no louder than before. “They are lost as we all are lost. The people have been turned against us and shall not see reason. We shall each be hanged and burned.”

There is a pause as Courfeyrac feels the heaviness settle in, a thickly weighted blanket of sadness warmed only by a heart-sized knot of sheer determination. It is a terrible feeling which she knows all too well, one which she has felt many times on a much smaller scale than this, and one which she feels oddly comfortable sharing with this young man. He is so familiar to her. So familiar— But of course he is! This is just a dream. Everything is at least a little bit familiar in a dream.

She snaps back to attention as Christopher nods, gravely. “Then as we know our fates, let us take our place upon the gallows with our dignity intact.” That said he turns his hands between Luce’s fingers and stands, bringing her to her feet as well.

They walk, side by side, in the direction of town and Courfeyrac sits behind Christopher’s eyes in awe. He suppresses his fear so easily, replaces it with calm resignation, and his thoughts grow slow and quiet. He shall not let them win this day yet he knows that this is not a battle for his fist but for his will. They will all die – there is no doubt – but he knows that they are each prepared to make that sacrifice. Victory here does not rest in survival but in refusing to compromise in their beliefs.

It takes only a short time to reach the square and the first of those gathered who see them murmur and gasp and scramble to keep their distance. By the time they’ve passed into the center, however, there is shouting and heckling and a trail of wetness where onlookers have spat at their feet. Both are seized. Luce hisses in pain as she stumbles to keep up with her captor’s march and has adopted a limp by the time they have reached the line by the gallows. She is shoved onto the tail end of those awaiting execution and a young man ( _Jeffrey – they hoped to be married in June_ ) is struck upside the head for calling her name. He cringes but must be struck again to stop him from craning his neck to see her.

Courfeyrac feels her own panic welling as she listens to Christopher’s thoughts – so cool, so calm – unbothered now, even as they lead him up to the platform and position him under the beam. How can he stay so collected? How is this even possible? He mentally reels off the names of his friends in a simple and matter-of-fact sort of manner, taking a count of who is there, and that is when she realizes that he has emptied himself. He has let go of everything he has ever cared for in the face of death. This has long since left the realm of dreams and crept like a prowling monster into the land of nightmares.

Beside Luce is a girl he only barely recognizes, a maid at an age ten years younger than some others stood below. Her name, he believes, is Eden. She is dirty and wild and he is vaguely aware that she has dodged this fate many times by accusing others. It is not, he remembers Michael ( _Michael? Where is Michael?_ ) once saying in her defense, that she is a bad person but that she is a desperate one, as they might all become desperate. Ester had scoffed and condemned the girl for valuing her own life before any others until only two days before this, when the first attack upon their small congregation had seen a small child ( _Grace! Dear little Grace._ ) trampled in the scuffle. Christopher recalls the look of pity in his friend’s eyes as their captors fought to tear the little one’s body from Eden’s arms. They had lost Barbary in that small battle as well. The rush and horror of sharing such a memory makes Courfeyrac ill.

There are Frances and Philip as well, then Jeffrey. Michael is missing and Gelia— but they had not seen Gelia since the evening before it had all begun and that is no surprise. Why stay when you are scorned? Why return when falsely called traitor?

Beside him, someone sighs. _Chonstans_. _My wife_. He sets his shoulders, chin raised in defiance, and a single flicker of regret crosses his mind. If they had not separated, if they had not each run their own way in hopes that at least one might escape, perhaps they together might have survived. Instead, they together shall die.

Courfeyrac is already sobbing by the time that the noose is in place. She can hardly see when he takes his final glance toward the woman beside him. What she does see sends her into a completely different level of hysterics.

Combeferre Combeferre Combefferre that’s Combeferre! I want out of this let me out let us out I don’t want to see any more! This isn’t interesting. This is terrible. This is horrifying. This is not the way that anything should end. Let us out and let them go and let Christopher and Chonstans go be happy and not have children. They don’t need children. He likes taking care of others’ children. He liked taking care of Grace and the littler ones who sometimes followed her and sometimes her sister Alyce and he’d never known Eden except through Michael, his dearest friend Michael, and let him find Michael and let Eden mourn. Let the others go on with their lives. Let them bury Barbary and let Luce marry Jeffrey and let them live in exile if that’s the only other option but please just let them—

“Wait!”

His gaze snaps toward the ruckus, a woman lunging and stumbling out of the crowd, the faces around her showing no compassion, no pity, only disgust. She doesn’t seem to care. She merely flings herself onto the platform and scrambles to Ester’s feet. And there, in their last moments, Christopher and Chonstans both smile.

 

Courfeyrac sits up so quickly that she nearly tumbles out of bed, face wet, sheets drenched, and voice failing mid-scream. Combeferre, coming into focus within Courfeyrac’s periphery, seems to be in a similar state, hands flying to her own throat as if searching for the rope. They stare at one another for a moment, both wide-eyed and entirely incapable of verbalizing even the smallest portion of what is currently bombarding them from the inside. Then Enjolras gasps into consciousness and, unlikely as it seems, she is the one to finally slide to the floor in a tangle of sheets.

“My phone!” She chokes on the words and it takes a moment for Courfeyrac to be certain what she’s said but Combeferre reacts within a heartbeat. By the time she’s detangled herself enough to function, her mobile is in her hands. Not that having it makes using it a simple matter. She’s shaking too hard to find the number she wants and her mumbled curses come together to announce, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

They’re all piled into the restroom a moment later, Enjolras sweating and shaking next to the toilet while Combeferre holds her hair. Courfeyrac, meanwhile, calms herself enough to get the phone into the contacts page, though she’s not certain exactly how. She can feel herself vibrating, knows full well that she’s still crying, and yet she’s still enough, her hands at least are steady enough. It is all of 3am.

“Enjolras?” She has to turn her back at the sound of gagging and has to fight her own reflex before she can go on. “Enjolras, it’s three in the morning. Who am I calling?”

It takes a moment but the answer comes with a tone of surety. “Call Grantaire. He won’t be sleeping.”

The other two look at one another but Courfeyrac scrolls down to the proper name and puts them on speaker as it rings. It’s a tinny sound echoes against the tile until the sharp stop and click of voicemail kicking in. She doesn’t even have to be asked, just ends the call and tries the number again.

They go through this same process three times before they finally get an answer. There’s a thump, a crash, and the sound of something skidding across a hard floor. Presumably that something is the phone. A dog barks, a voice hushes it, the dog whines, the voice curses, and a door shrieks on its hinges. _Are you all right_? I’m fine, Gram, go back to bed. _You didn’t hurt yourself, did you_? Just tripped over a cat. _Were you up here being sick before_? Gram, stop worrying and get some sleep. _Well, all right but if you need anything_ — I’ll let you know, all right? Good night. The door closes again and there is muttering and scuffing before he finally picks up the phone.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras spits into the toilet before making a sharp noise of assent. “And company.”

“Good! If I’d just broken my ass for any other unknown number at this hour I’d have…” There’s a pause, then a sigh. “I’d have hung up. I can’t even be fucked with a good threat right now.”

Enjolras has to gag again and neither of the other two are particularly certain why they’re even calling but Courfeyrac clears her throat and is proud of how steady it sounds when she fills the void by asking, “Are you sure you’re ok?”

On the other end, there’s a laugh, a dog huffs, a cat meows very loudly into the phone. “Well, I didn’t hit my head and I’m pretty sure nothing’s bleeding, if that counts. Those facts usually sort of rule out the extremes anyway.”

Combeferre rolls her eyes. “I suppose they do but there is quite a lot to mess up between those extremes.”

There’s a pause, a little too long, before he grumbles in a slightly deeper voice, “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Then it’s silence. They are quiet on both sides and it seems obvious that, though she knew to make the call and Grantaire knew to answer, Enjolras is not entirely certain of what to say. Combeferre obviously doesn’t know, either. Courfeyrac definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent does not. She knows, somehow, that it’s got something to do with the dream but everything right now feels as if it’s connected to that and she doesn’t even know this person, doesn’t know why—

“So, uh—” And every last bit of their collective awkwardness compresses itself into Grantaire’s voice. “—which of you three has the biggest hangover right now?”

They’ll meet at 10 out on the National Mall. It was terrifying but at least it was the ending, he says. If they can manage, they should be safe to get some real sleep.


End file.
